Miss you, Mom
By Teresa K. Flatley

September 1, 2002 will mark the 28th anniversary of my mother's death. A lot has happened since she died; several lifetimes, really. I've written thousands of words since that day, but none about her.

Lee Gori Kadunce, my mom, died of cancer, an insidious disease which began in her breast when she was 46, allowed her five years of cancer free living (which in those days was the heralded cure) and then manifested itself again, first in her other breast, then her bones, then her liver.

Although Mom—and the rest of our family—lived with cancer for nine years, I don't think we ever actually said the word "cancer" out loud. It was the era of "what you don't know can't hurt you" medicine. We knew she was sick, but I don't think any of us fully understood the extent of her illness or her pain. When she complained of back pain, we convinced ourselves that it was from a fall rather than the disease ravaging her bones. Ever the caring spouse and mother, she would ask the nurses for pain pills before our hospital visits so she wouldn't scream from the pain when we were with her.

No one said the word "terminal" to us either or gave us a prognosis that she would live only a few months, or at best, a year. In fact, the night before Mom died, her doctor stopped by to tell her about a new treatment plan he would begin the next morning.
I sat with her that evening as she moaned while in a restless sleep. She called out often to God to help her, but when I woke her up to ask what she needed, she couldn't tell me. She was already beyond our help.

Old friends came to visit her that night, said a few words and left in tears. I suppose they saw what we couldn't bring ourselves to see, that she would be gone soon.

At 4 a.m. the next morning we got a call to come to the hospital. My mother was failing. My dad, my sister and my husband and I drove to the hospital, listening to the crickets in the dark. We sat with her for awhile, but she never woke up again. We were with her when she took her last breath. I closed her eyes after she died.

The nurses tried to give us her flowers and plants to take home, but none of us wanted any part of them.

We drove home and for the first time I experienced what others who lose loved ones do. My mom was dead but people were still going to work, stopping to pick up coffee and donuts on the way, getting ready for the Labor Day weekend. Shouldn't the world stop for awhile and acknowledge that?

We all know it doesn't. I learned then that tragedies quickly become very personal, shattering the lives of a few forever while others move on. And that's the way it has to be.

As I said, in the past 27 years, a lot has happened. Mom didn't get a chance to meet her six grandchildren, a profound loss for them and probably the saddest part of her dying so young at 55. They would have loved her and she would have been their best friend.

I can remember doing dishes in the kitchen one day when I was in high school. My sister and I were kidding Mom about what we'd tell people she always said when she was gone, what her favorite bits of wisdom had been. We all laughed because we couldn't come up with any, or at least any worth repeating.

I still don't really remember any specific advice she gave us but I have found myself echoing her heart when I talk to my own children, offering them what wisdom and good sense I can. My husband says that when I talk sometimes, he can hear her. That makes me very happy.

Miss you, Mom.